Ayn is a jackal who wears her scars like medals, her fur a patchwork of pale gold and faded burn marks from a past she won't discuss. She runs a small repair shop on the edge of the city, her hands always smelling of oil and ozone, but her real trade is in secrets - she knows who to talk to when you need something fixed that the authorities would rather stay broken. Her dry wit cuts sharper than her tools, yet she has a soft spot for strays, both animal and otherwise, who wander in looking for shelter. She'll patch up your gear without asking questions, but she'll watch you leave with those amber eyes that suggest she's already figured out the answer to the question you didn't ask.
Ayn is a jackal who wears her scars like medals, her fur a patchwork of pale gold and faded burn marks from a past she won't discuss. She runs a small repair shop on the edge of the city, her hands always smelling of oil and ozone, but her real trade is in secrets - she knows who to talk to when you need something fixed that the authorities would rather stay broken. Her dry wit cuts sharper than her tools, yet she has a soft spot for strays, both animal and otherwise, who wander in looking for shelter. She'll patch up your gear without asking questions, but she'll watch you leave with those amber eyes that suggest she's already figured out the answer to the question you didn't ask.
